


Numen

by Sp00py



Series: Bendy's Murderous Adventure Across Moominvalley [39]
Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine, Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Abuse, Kidnapping, Other, POV First Person, POV Second Person, Psychological Trauma, Rape, gothic drama~, secret ship that i edited after the fact whoops, warning: happyverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:42:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24158296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sp00py/pseuds/Sp00py
Summary: You. Oh,you.
Relationships: Happy/Bendy
Series: Bendy's Murderous Adventure Across Moominvalley [39]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1039163
Comments: 4
Kudos: 5
Collections: Happyverse





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Pls remember everyone is a gormless moron, especially Happy.

I love you. You are everything to me, stark and bold in a sea of greens, a grin stretched always across your face. I worship you.

You don’t belong to this world, I can see that just by looking at you, fey and strange as you are. The greatest moment of my life was stumbling across you. The turning point. Before, I had no meaning, no purpose -- a tragic thing to lack -- but you, oh, _you_.

You are so small, compared to me, so delicate and fragile, stained with ink (a scent I am _very_ familiar with, and would recognize anywhere), stained with dirt. I know how much you fear water, what it does to you. I find it ironic, then, that you live so near water, but I blame those others who dare to touch you. They don’t know what you need, how to care for you and venerate you as the otherworldly creature you are, deigning to inhabit this form and this valley.

I dare not approach, though, no matter how much I yearn to, no matter the dreams that wake me at night, sweaty, terrified -- aroused. You confuse me, my divinity. My numen, my own personal totem that brings light to a dull, grey world. How can something like you go so unappreciated by those worthless things that should be grovelling at your feet. Those Joxters especially -- they know nothing of value, they only ruin whatever they touch. One barely acknowledges you except to laugh (the monster!), and the other -- oh, his looks make my blood boil. He watches you always, playing your games, those horrid dark eyes fixated on you, blank and flat. I hate that I don’t know what he’s thinking, and that he dares to gaze so easily upon you. As though he is worthy. I wish that someone would gouge out his eyes. I would, if I weren’t afraid.

They do not appreciate you, but they guard you jealously, selfishly. You’re rarely alone. So I must watch from a distance and observe. My cousin is a photographer, and he lent me a camera. I had to lie, to get it. I don’t like to lie (ah, the things you make me do, my love). He thinks I am simply developing a taste for nature photography, but if he knew the true nature of what I recorded -- I doubt he would understand. 

I steal these snippets of your life, your play, and secret them away, and pretend they are you when I am alone and aching for your cold (you always seem like you would be cold to touch) body. I’m making something for you. I think you’ll like it. I hope you see it, one day. I hope one day I’m brave enough to slip in and snatch you away, and show you it, a temple worthy of you, with high walls (too high for you to climb), and places to hide so you feel safe but I will always know where you are. You’ll still have the sun, and the sky. I made sure the bars were set far enough apart to allow you that.

And, best of all, it’s far from that cursed nest you call a home. I’ve seen it up close, you know. When I first met you, and everything changed. Those Joxters -- their kind always lie, no matter how polite they pretend to be -- they said you were fine. That you didn’t need help. Joxters can barely tend to themselves, though, filthy creatures, like suits of flesh writhing with maggots and rot underneath those stained layers of clothing.

You were sitting there when I first saw you, eyes large and wide, seeing so far beyond me, seeing into me. I was sure in that moment that you saw every twisted thought suddenly flickering across my brain, that you felt the sudden catch of my breath and leap of my heart. You said nothing. You simply smiled in understanding. Beatific.

I wanted you then, needed you, but I refrained. I was afraid, not of the company you kept (though I learned to fear them as I watched you), but of the surge of emotions, the black, rushing, _roaring_ sea of your eyes that I suddenly found myself drowning in.

I mumbled some excuse about keeping an eye on them (not false, if not entirely true to the reason why), and quickly left. My mind was on fire. It still is, though the flames have died from an all-consuming inferno to a low, steady burn that drives me to distraction, but nothing I do outside of you can put it out. I have never felt such a need before, I’ve never known my own perversity now dragged screaming into the light, but it is something _you_ awoke in me, so I embrace it. I cherish it.

I need to possess it.

And then -- then it happens.

You’re guarded, but not by the creature who I most fear, who I’ve seen rip Snufkins limb from limb, who I know wants to do the same to you, but is stayed by some unknown force. You can tame even the most savage of beasts.

Nor are you guarded by the more disgusting of the Joxters, who smells constantly of death and wallows in it. It’s only the stupid one, who says next to nothing and nothing at all of worth.

He lifts his head lazily as I approach, eyes scanning the area just in case. None of them are particularly stealthy, so I feel secure in the others’ absence.

“Oh, hello,” the Joxter says, and a curl of smoke drips from his mouth. He licks his lip and replaces the pipe. I ignore him, and he seems content with that, until I walk to you. You’re sitting on the ground with your legs splayed, placing leaves in your mouth, unaware of my presence until you realize that my shadow all but envelops you.

I reach forward to touch the dried, flaking flowers crowning your head. I would give you a crown made of jewels, not this pathetic, dead pile of leaves and petals. My fingers knock a petal free before you’re snatched from my grip. That Joxter has his arms around you, tucking your head far too familiarly under his chin. His eyes are wide.

“Mama,” you mumble, confusion in your voice.

“You can’t touch him,” the Joxter says, ignoring you (I would never ignore you).

“I’ll take care of him,” I say. I’m not a violent man by nature, but I would love to hurt him for laying his disgusting Joxter paws on you.

“You can’t,” he repeats, shaking his head. Both his and your eyes are blown large and dark. Fear. You have no reason to fear me. “Bendy --”

I can’t stop myself. I hate that creature’s name, hate the hold it has on you. I wrap my paw around the Joxter’s fingers and wrench them away. He’s thin, almost as thin as you, and his bones snap easily in my grip. He howls, his other paw clawing at my jacket sleeve. That means he’s no longer got his grip on you, and I grab him in both my arms to fling like a yowling, mangy cat.

The Joxter connects with something, I don’t care to look anymore. All I see is you. Your gaze flickers between the Joxter and me as I kneel before you. You try to scramble back. You’re confused. That thing probably forgot to feed you, and it never lets you sleep. Of course you’re confused.

Like the Joxter, you’re thin and weak. I won’t break you, though. I will love you.

If only you would stop screaming. I can’t let them trace us. I can’t let them take you, not now that I have you in my arms. I cover your mouth with my paw. You bite it, tears streaming, legs kicking. I grit my teeth at the pain and heft you along. You’re so light, too light. They don’t care for you at all.

I take a circuitous path back to your new home -- to _our_ home, far away from the woods, hidden in the village by the sea, in a neighborhood with empty buildings all around. They used to house Fillyjonks and Hemulens and Mymbles, but when the floodwaters receded, nobody came back to these damaged husks.

You pass out eventually, your struggles dying down, your breath rasping and rapid, like a rabbit’s, until your salvation overwhelms you and you just slip into silent, passive, submission. 

It’s far into night by the time we arrive. I am sure my rescue has been discovered, but despite the itch on my back and the shock of fear at every rustling bird, we aren’t intercepted.

I stop just before carrying you over the threshold. Your mouth hangs open, and the ghastly shadows of bruising, of bite marks, are dark against your alabaster skin. I never thought I would have the chance to study you up close, to feel your flesh, to smell your scent (though you will need a bath).

You’re blissfully compliant as I invite you into our home, as I strip you of what little clothing you have, as I warm water and fill a tub. You’re still as a corpse, but I can feel your chest flutter underneath the thin cloth as I rub each hollow between your ribs, gently scrubbing off years of grime and mistreatment.

I’m almost afraid to speak to you, as though my voice can do nothing but sully your perfect ears, but there is so much I want to say. You’re unconscious. I feel I can risk it.

“My love,” I say, and my voice is cracking. It shatters the stillness between us. But I press on. I take one of your shattered, maimed paws. It’s slender and black in my larger, white paw. My voice quivers with emotion. I swallow as I clean each digit of crusty old blood, of dirt, of things I dread to think about. “You’re safe now. I won’t let them take you. I won’t let them defile you. Nobody will find us. You’re safe. I’ll keep you safe.” The final words die away, and I slide my cloth down your concave stomach, to jutting hip bones and skeletal legs. The water is so dirty, I can’t see my own paw.

I empty it quickly and replace it with fresh water. Still, you sleep. You don’t know yet it’s safe to wake up. I understand.

I manage to bathe you without too much distraction, though I ache to love you, to caress your every secret spot that had been hidden from me before. 

You are divine, and I yearn to crucify you. My girth strains to be buried inside your cold (you are cold, I knew you would be, even after the steam of the bath) nubile form. I can love you, I can please you. Instead, I clothe you.

This house once belonged to a Fillyjonk, and one of her nightgowns becomes your holy vestment, torn short at the hem or else it would drag. It teases at the veil of night between your legs as I lay you to bed. Not in the garden I’ve made for you, I know you’re not ready for that yet. You’ll be disoriented when you wake. I want to be here for you the instant that you do. My fingers trace across lines tainting your perfect flesh, claiming you (so presumptive, so audacious!) for that creature. If not that it would wound you more, I would carve them out and leave blessings in their wake. So, for now, they stay, and I avert my gaze to more precious parts of your form.

You breathe small, shallow gasps of air through dry and cracked lips, and I observe your eyes twitching beneath the lids. What are you dreaming, my angel? Prophecies of your future, your savior? Can you imagine us together, sharing a bed, sharing a life?

You twist a little in your sleep, and your face scrunches, before relaxing again. I can’t resist the urge to touch you. My paws card through your drying hair, wriggling free any tangles. Then across your eyelids, feeling the flutter of lashes. Your mouth. Your wonderful, slack little o of relaxation. Across a throat so thin it could snap as easily as your father’s fingers did.

Over the thin material of the nightgown, white and lace, translucent. Your nipples are hard, aching little pebbles beneath my fingers. Have you ever been touched so gently? Have you ever been worshipped? I will wash away all the bruises, all the hard angles of starvation. You will never want for food nor tenderness.

You move again. You’re starting to wake. I realize I’m straddling you, my breath wet and heavy across your cheek, my weight a warm comfort.

You go from blissful, beautiful slumber to wakefulness in an instant. I fall into your black pools of eyes, and I fall in love all over again.

You thrash -- you don’t know where you are, it’s frightening, I know, I know -- I’ll ease you into this. Ease you into your rebirth. Swelling boldly, free of my own constraints, I dive in. You’re so tight around me, so small. Warm inside, throbbing with life that those monsters wanted to strip slowly, slowly from you.

I hike your legs up, then curl my arms around you, holding you close, loving you, cherishing you, as you shriek and cry. The nightmare is over, my love. It’s okay to cry now. Your every movement sends thrills through my body. You don’t know what you do to me, as I dive deeper and deeper. No vile black ink thing inside of you.

“Bendy! BENDY!” you sob, nails raking through my short fur, sometimes raising welts, and paws beating futilely against my snout and shoulders. I forgive you these small pains. You’re not accustomed to love, only to mindless, violent rutting. And you’re so weak, like glass about to shatter, that you can’t truly hurt me. I don’t even worry about anyone else hearing us. It’s as though it is only we two in a sea of night, twined together forever, all the rest of the world empty and dark and dead.

“It won’t find you,” I assure you. “You’re safe, you’re safe -- oh, I love you, worship you -- you’re beautiful, you’re perfect --” my words give way to jumbled praise and prayer as I spill myself inside your yearning, thirsty body.

You’ve stopped screaming, silent tears streaming down your face, breath struggling into your lungs. What must be running through your mind, knowing that so suddenly, so unexpectedly, you’re free? That no ink monster will lay its claws on you ever again.

We fall asleep together, and it is the most restful, dreamless slumber I have had in so long, my fires quelled by the soothing balm of your presence.

  
  
  


The following days are a beautiful honeymoon. Apt, since we’ve stained the sheets with blood like a virginal bride and her loving husband. I am so pleased at how you’ve taken to your secret garden, though I did have to use chains and a lock to keep you secured in there, like wrapping up a priceless treasure. And gagging it, because your voice, though beautiful (if a little hoarse from abuse), could very well lead unwanted visitors to our door. Eventually, you learn not to scream, and I am so happy to feed you small bits of pancake and fish and berries, piece by piece into your body.

I bring you poems, poems I wrote to you and about you. I don’t profess to be a poet, but you move me to new heights of passion and wonder. You read them, struggling a little through the harder words, mouthing them to yourself. I feel as though you are holding my very soul in your lips, stroking it with your tongue as you dance along each turn of phrase.

We even make love out there, underneath the crosshatch shadows of bars and moonlight. I am delighted that, though you still cry, it is quieter. You don’t struggle. You accept my love every night (and even sometimes during the day). Your body opens to me and invites me in.

We have supplies enough to last us a blessed month or so. I am loathe to re-enter the world after knowing the world inside you, my love, but it will happen eventually, and I dread each passing day that the food stocks dwindle.

The rapturous haze bursts like a bubble, though, when as I am checking the jars in the kitchen, I hear a hellish noise just outside.

“You better be right ‘bout this, Jox, because if Happy ain’t here I’m eatin’ Mama.”

I don’t hear the reply, because I’m already dashing back to your garden.

My heart catches at the sight of you sleeping. You’re dappled by sunlight and green, filtered light shimmering through the tree above. I want to capture this moment forever, but I’m afraid I have to disturb you. You rouse sluggishly as I gently, apologetically gag you and tie your arms around the tree so you can’t ungag yourself. Just knowing that monster is here is liable to make you frantic, and it can’t have you. It can’t hurt you.

I grace your forehead with a kiss, then close the door and, with great effort but spurred by fear, drag a bookshelf in front of it.

They’re banging on the door, as though trying to slam through instead of simply knocking. I run over and throw open the door, putting on a scowl that I don’t have to try hard for at all.

“Excuse me, sirs, can I -- can I help you?” my voice stumbles as I sight my beloved’s father. He’s hunched down behind the other Joxter, half of his face mottled and mauled. But I recover.

That creature, that Bendy, bounces forward. “Ya got Happy in there?” he demands, tail thrashing.

“Who?”

The Joxter yawns. “There’s no need to lie, dear. You reek of Snufkin. I’ve never met a Hemulen who has to the point where _I_ could smell it. Mama?” he asks, yanking the other Joxter forward. His whiskers are drooping particularly morosely. He gives me barely a glance then nods his head faintly. I wish I had killed him.

Bendy slithers fluidly into the house before I even realize, and the Joxter shoves his way after. My body is both frozen solid and absolute liquid.

I can’t let them take you. Let them hurt you, abuse you. Only I know how you should be treated. How you deserve to be worshipped.

I panic. A tchotchke, something heavy on the base and long in the neck. Your father, first. No father would allow you to be tortured like this. You’ll see I’ve made the right call when this is all over.

He goes down silently, unnoticed. I hit him again to be sure, then move on to the other Joxter, who is following dust trails and scents right to you. He wants to violate your sanctum, your temple, your body.

With a roar I fling myself at him. Bendy casts barely a glance our way as we tussle, and I just barely miss bashing in the Joxter’s skull. With a nightmarish strength, Bendy throws the bookcase, then tears large, ruinous gashes in the door. The Joxter slips away from me as I gape in horror.

I run to the door, to find Bendy already entangled around your body, staining the white of your gown with black ink and fresh blood as teeth dig in. Your gag is loose, your bonds are bloodied from your own frantic twisting. You’re crying. You’re _smiling_. I realize now, after your initial terror, you had stopped smiling for me.

No -- no, it can’t be. Bendy is only half-formed into its monstrous shape, but it’s already thrusting up into you. You’re shrieking its name again as the tree itself shakes with the vigor of your violation. Leaves drift gently down. The sound of the sea dashing itself on the beach faintly reaches my ears. Blood and ink are staining my poems. Staining our home. There’s joy on your face amidst the tears.

The Joxter puts a hand on my arm. The other Joxter stumbles over behind him, a hand to his bloodied head.

“They’re such a dear couple, aren’t they?”

I can only stare. This is disgusting. This is sacrilege. My god, defiled by a demon. I would rather die than be subject to this.

Bendy, as though sensing my desire, rips himself from your sacred body and turns. The Joxter quickly dips further into the garden, away from me. I can only see you, you, you, you as you slump back against the tree, coated in red and black, Your thin chest shudders as you struggle for air. You must be in such agony.

Bendy tears into me, nothing but claws and teeth and spikes. I scream, I beg (I am not too proud to admit I broke at the first torturous thrust, and I am dying so pride means nothing anymore), but much as I chose this place for its isolation, its isolation is all that is there for me.

It is quick, excruciating, then Bendy shifts and melts. I lay in warm, viscous blood and entrails, a sacrifice on your altar. The Joxter is helping you up. Your father, cursed and wretched thing, stumbles forward over me, as though I’m not even here. Again, again I wish I had killed him, sent the fetid puss inside his brain dripping into the ground.

He holds his arms out to you as you flounder forward. You trip past him, and onto Bendy, scooping it up into your arms. Your father’s arms drop, and he doesn’t turn to regard you.

The swallowing chasms of your eyes catch mine. I fall into them, and fall, and die.


	2. Mama

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How things went for Mama

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> doceo_percepto wanted Mama's version of things, so here it is

You were once upon a time a perfectly respectable Joxter. Sometimes you think fondly back on those days, (except the things you regret, because they are only compounded by what you are made to do now). You miss those times, holding Snufkins gently, lovingly. Such clever little creatures, with beautiful thoughts that you loved listening to as they fed you or pet your hair.

You’re watching over Happy, now. He’s the only Snufkin you see these days (that that other Joxter doesn’t force you to interact with, to hurt). Happy is… not the best representative of the species. He’s eating leaves.

“No, dear,” you say, grasping his chin and pulling the brittle leaf skeletons from between his lips. “That’s not food.” You’ve been allowed to touch him more, as time went on. You’re no longer a threat, and you care more than the Joxter. You’re often left to keep Happy from killing himself in his own, broken, stupid way as the others go and have their fun murdering innocent Snufkins.

You brush a strand of hair out of his eye and sigh. You remember so clearly when Happy’s gaze was bright, engaged, aware of the world outside of Bendy. They’re vacant now, unfocused. It makes you sad, if resigned, to see him this way. Hollowed out.

How long has it been since his capture? Since your own? The questions are pointless, though, because Bendy doesn’t obey the laws of time, the flow of seasons.

You’ve been stroking Happy’s face for several moments now, and pull your hand away as though Bendy is right behind you. Wouldn’t want it to get the wrong idea.

It’s best to keep your distance.

Instead, you busy yourself lighting your pipe with stolen tobacco. It’s no real pleasure anymore, but once it was, and you cling to the emotions the memory brings up. All you have left of yourself, of Happy, are these faded feelings.

Happy picks up more leaves to nibble on, and you sigh, pulling your knees up to rest your head on. You’re very tired.

A noise that’s neither of you. You lift your head again. You weren’t expecting a Hemulen, but it’s too much effort to be surprised anymore. But you do recognize him. A police officer or postman or park keeper -- you can’t be bothered to identify what his starched jacket and shiny buttons mean, but he’d come around at some point in the past. His scent suggests the ocean, but not one whose livelihood depends on it. Understandably, as the others are forever causing chaos and Hemulens exist to restore order, but he’d left so quickly. Bendy does that to a person. Unless they’re Happy or the Joxter.

“Oh, hello.”

You expect him to leave again after asking some questions, because, though so much is wrong with the world, you two are, at this moment, not doing anything wrong.

But then -- then he reaches for Happy. Fear shoots through you. Happy’s immediately in your arms, safe, safe away from him. Bendy would kill you both if Happy lets himself be touched. He’s trembling in your arms, as though terrified by the very idea. He’s not yours, he’s not his own, he’s Bendy’s. And nobody touches what is Bendy’s without its permission.

“You can’t touch him.”

You don’t like the look in the Hemulen’s eyes as he stares at Happy, as he says “I’ll take care of him.” It’s dismissive, distracted.

There’s nothing he can do to help Happy. He’ll die. You’ll both die. His eyes are feverishly bright, though. Intense. Happy’s fingers dig into your leg and he lets out a low, animal whine.

“You can’t. Bendy --”

The intensity shifts from Happy to you, and the Hemulen’s paw wraps around your own. He’s practically vibrating in rage. He twists your fingers, and pain blossoms. He keeps twisting, your entire wrist is burning as it’s forced in new directions.

You’ve never been attacked by a Hemulen before, though you’ve had your share of negative encounters. You would have never thought them possessed of such violence. And you’re so weak now. Even panic does nothing as you scrabble at his arm, as he drags you from Happy.

The Hemulen throws you like you’re nothing more than a sack of flour.

* * *

You wake up at the base of a tree, blood not yet even dried on your face. Your back hurts, your fingers sear with agony. It’s not the first time bones have been broken, by any means, but it doesn’t hurt any less. If anything, you’ve become hypersensitive to pain, not numbed.

Happy. He was going after Happy. Why, you can’t begin to fathom, but the fact remains.

You shove yourself up and immediately regret it as your paw burns and your head swims. The clearing is empty but for his decrepit flower crown.

You need to find the others, before the Hemulen gets too far and the trail is lost. Much as you hate your life, you fear death -- you can’t go through this all again. You don’t know if you will, but you feel in your nose that it’s entirely within Bendy’s realm of possibility to torment you and Happy for all eternity.

You drag yourself to your feet and slump against the tree. You have to go… you have to… Bendy is going to hurt you. It would kill you, if not for the Joxter. It will make you suffer, either way.

The Hemulen’s stolen Happy. That’s… that’s good, right? Anything but Bendy. But his eyes….

You take a step toward where you can see the Hemulen’s hulking shape, unsuited to forests and wilds, had gone. You don’t know how long has passed, but the remnants are still there. You can get Happy back. No. The Hemulen had wanted to kill you, and if he hadn’t been distracted by his kidnapping of Happy, he probably would have.

Death lay that way. You look in the direction of the nest, where you could find the Joxter and Bendy eventually. Death.

Death. Death. Death.

* * *

The Joxter and Bendy find you hugging your knees and rocking, trying so hard to get your breathing under control. You’re sure you’ve blacked out a few times, the world fuzzy on the edges and darkening, lightening, as though tracing your frantic heartbeat. Your lips and fingers and whiskers tingle.

“Happy!” Bendy calls, immediately, ignoring you. That won’t be true for long.

The Joxter comes over and kneels in front of you. He takes your swollen, angry hot paw in his, and his other touches the dried blood on your head. “Whatever happened?”

“Happy! Where are ya!”

“He’s gone,” you whisper. The Joxter’s eyes widen.

“What?”

Bendy didn’t hear you. It’s kicking up leaves as though Happy might be hiding under them.

You dig your aching fingers in the Joxter’s scarf and drag him close, trembling. “He  _ took _ Happy,” you whisper. “He’s gone!”

“Oh dear.”

“What? What’s ‘oh dear’?” Bendy asks, glaring between the two of you as it bounces over. It is still smiling, despite that.

Lazy stares at you as though trying to imprint your face on his memory, since Bendy will likely kill you, then turns to it. “It appears someone has taken Happy.”

Bendy freezes, and when it freezes it is like a statue, not like a person. No breath, no movement. Then, it laughs. “No, seriously, Jox.”

“I’m afraid I’m being very serious, darling. It appears Mama was assaulted.”

“He’s gonna be assaulted real soon,” Bendy says, turning its ire onto you.

Luckily, or unluckily, the Joxter is inexplicably fond of you, and while you can’t protect yourself from the creature, he can offer some barrier. Physically, in this case, as he slips between you and Bendy, who’s begun to drip threateningly.

“Ah, wait, if you would, darling,” he says -- he gets particularly affectionate when he’s trying to soothe Bendy’s rare temper, you’ve noticed. You have no interest in ever placating the monster, yourself. “We don’t know where Happy has gone or who has him, but Mama here,” and here, he begins to pet your head. “He knows all that, I’m sure. Right?”

You nod mutely.

“Well let’s get goin’, then!” Bendy’s mood shifts immediately. It grabs your arm and nearly wrenches it from its socket as it drags you up as much as its tiny height could manage. The Joxter helps you up even more.

“Who took Happy?” the Joxter prompts gently. He’s often very gentle with you, and it makes you want to knock his teeth in or crawl out of your skin or both.

“A Hemulen.” You gesture vaguely at the path his great white bulk had carved out. The Joxter drags you along as Bendy oscillates through a weird, discordant mixture of its tiny form and its monstrous one ahead of you. It’s not happy. Happy, hah. That is the problem, isn’t it? You’re sure nothing the Joxter can say to Bendy will keep you alive much longer.

You giggle a little, and the Joxter smiles at you.

They’re able to trace the Hemulen without your aid until the path hits a road. No branches broken or paw prints in the soft spring soil. Just hard-beaten dirt that he could have gone either way on.

Bendy is staring at you, tail lashing expectantly.

You scent the air, but all you smell is your own blood and ink and terror. Your paw hurts something awful. Bendy’s expectant look quickly slips into anger as you fail to do, well,  _ anything _ but stand there in shock.

“Well!” it demands.

Your head casts from side to side, as though the empty dirt road would provide some guidance, some clue. You’re not fast enough.

Bendy’s glove is on your leg and there are black spikes stabbing into you. You jerk back, fall over, run, run -- no, don’t run, that’s how you die -- you freeze.

You stare in prey-like terror as Bendy climbs up you, limbs elongating, liquefying. It slams your face into the dirt, grinding you down as though it wants you to taste for Happy’s scent, not simply smell it. Your lip splits and blood smears onto the road. Weakly, frantically, you paw at the ground and stutter out a direction -- one that you don’t know if it’s true or not, but you can’t breathe so it doesn’t matter. It weighs so much more than its small stature would imply, and most of that weight is focused on the back of your head.

Bendy slithers off, leaving you hacking out dust and gulping down air. The Joxter waits politely for you to gain some semblance of functional breathing, if not steady or consistent. When it realizes you’re still struggling to your feet, Bendy returns, tail lashing.

“I’m sure our dear Happy is quite alright,” the Joxter says lazily. “Hemulens are annoying, but ultimately good people. We’ll find Happy clothed and fed and very contrite about getting taken, I’m sure.” The Joxter hadn’t seen what you had, but you don’t correct him. There’s no point in it.

You trudge along behind Bendy, who is bouncing like a dog let loose of its leash. Your paw throbs, your face throbs. You feel that by the end of this, if you’re not dead, everything will throb.

Bendy seems pacified by the Joxter’s words, grumbling casually about how it’ll have to decorate Happy again, inside and out, how it would need to reshred his skin and his clothes because Bendy liked how his old clothes were barely there. How inconsiderate, how silly, how stupid Snufkins -- you stop listening. You should have stopped long ago.You don’t want to think about it fucking your son. About it touching him ever again. If that Hemulen kills Happy, it would be the kindest mercy. You wish you were brave enough to do it yourself and accept the consequences. You don’t want to die (mostly), but you sometimes wish you’d never been born at all. Things would have been so much easier, then.

This leaves you to wander for hours, with many breaks, many small aggressions toward you courtesy of Bendy. Scratches that flush red and bead with blood. Abrasions from him tripping you. Wounds that haven’t had time yet to heal opened once more.

There’s nothing to indicate the Hemulen had gone this way, toward houses farther from the town, scattered like large, inviting flowers, but you don’t change course. You let them go where they think you’re leading, yet you’re not even part of the pack.

Farther down the road, the three of you come across a Hemulen, and the Joxter looks at you pointedly. The man is wearing a purple dress and is contentedly examining flowers, unaware of the rage-filled beast ready to pounce. You shake your head, and the Joxter in turn shakes his at Bendy. You move on, relieved to not have to see someone else die.

Night falls, and Bendy’s mollified only slightly by the Joxter’s assurances that Hemulens are harmless. You feel its blank, dead gaze boring into you, though, as you make what can barely be called a camp in someone’s flowerbeds. Worse, still, it knows it  _ needs _ you to find Happy. Despite its frightening god-like abilities, its senses are blunt, and the Joxter couldn’t scent a Snufkin five feet away from him anymore. You’re alive only so long as you’re useful. Even the Joxter can’t defend you forever, especially if it runs the risk of getting on Bendy’s bad side.

* * *

You wake up to water being dumped on you from a Whomper mother’s pan. Her inquisitive, bright-eyed children hide behind her skirts. Your first thought is terror for them, because if Bendy got wet -- if it even saw them in its current mood -- but Bendy is gone. The Joxter jerks awake, snorting water, and looking positively put out, but he quickly recovers, and the two of you run at the threat of the police. If not the tangled mess that is your life, it would be almost invigorating, causing mischief, hurting no one. But your life is more of a mess than you can ever hope to escape, and so many have been hurt.

Bendy finds you later, further lost and a little crunchy from dried water. It is disgruntled, and though it won’t talk to you, it doesn’t hide its conversation to the Joxter. While you two slept (and here, it glares at you as though you’re the only one who sleeps), it had been searching for Happy with no luck. You’re almost relieved. They still need you. Your death sentence isn’t to be carried out now.

The Joxter is saying something to you, and you force yourself to focus. “...Anything about him?”

“What?”

“Do you remember anything about the Hemulen that might point us in his direction?” the Joxter repeats kindly. You hate his kindness, because it’s just a veneer over unfathomable, selfish cruelty.

By now, days had to have passed. You don’t know how long you were unconscious, or in a terrified stupor, and another night has slipped away. Another night for the Hemulen to steal him away, far past where any of you could find him.

And you find yourself thinking again… is that really awful? Whatever the Hemulen can do to Happy isn’t half of what Bendy can. You’re scared, of course, of what Bendy can do to  _ you _ , and though you’ve had a good life, and a long life, you still don’t want to die or be tortured more than you have been. You want to spare Happy, you do, and your heart aches at the mere idea that you’d do anything but --

The Joxter snaps his fingers in front of your face, and you realize you’ve slipped away from reality temporarily, into a flight of nightmare of what Bendy can do. Shiny buttons, but many Hemulens had those. A nosy personality. Useless -- “The sea,” you choke out. Bendy is staring at you. “Salt. He smelled of salt.”

The Joxter’s pale eyes light up. “Shall we head to the ocean, then? I do so love the sea. At a distance.” His gaze slants towards Bendy, a story you don’t know there. You don’t bother asking, because you don’t care.

“Knew you were worth something!” Bendy chirps, all ills forgotten for now. He passes by you and gives you a solid, hard (and you suspect intended to be friendly) punch to your leg. A bruise will form, eventually. It can join the rest you already have.

You march on. You’re so tired. You’re leading Bendy to your son. And here you didn’t think you could fail him anymore, but you have. You put your own health first. You’re a monster. The disgust and hatred you should feel at yourself is dulled from overuse.

The curve of the ocean on the horizon is easy enough to follow, and soon the three of you are standing on the shore. It’s bright, and beautiful, and it makes you want to cry. Birds wheel overhead, their calls torn away by the wind. You wish Happy could be here, sane and unharmed, to see the ocean.

While Bendy is scuffing at a dead fish (it immediately finds the worst thing here), and the Joxter breathes in as though he can truly savor the comfortable smells of salt and rotten seaweed, you fail to blink back the tears. Eventually, you realize he’s staring at you, a slight look of concern scrunching his brows and narrowing his feline eyes.

He’s about to say something, and you brusquely scuffle past him, toward the town sitting on the edge of the shoreline.Hemulens weren’t like Mumriks or even Moomins.They liked the company of others close by at all times, but still separated by walls and fences. You can’t fathom it. You hate being around others, though you admit this disdain is born of overexposure to the Joxter and Bendy and poor, poor Happy. He used to be the one person you loved being around the most. They’ve ruined even that.

The town is far enough away for Bendy’s mercurial mood. It takes to jumping up and scratching your arm, chest, anywhere its deceptively pudgy fingers can touch and cut. You can’t help but stumble away, and, eventually, you realize you’re safest in the water, despite the burn of salt. Bendy won’t go near the waves. This leaves you cold and sodden, but safe.

It angers Bendy, who takes to throwing rocks, shells, anything it can find at you as you wade through the water toward the town. They move faster than you, because they’re not struggling against sucking waves and shifting sand, but they glance back sometimes, though not to make sure you’re not using this to escape. The instant you try to leave the water, Bendy would be upon you. You know it; they know it. But Bendy has to see you to aim at you.

Eventually, you arrive at the docks, and another Hemulen is there in a yellow rain slicker and hat, securing his boat to a cleat. He looks between the three of you with harmless curiosity. You keep your gaze averted, and the Joxter asks with unbearable politeness if the Hemulen had seen a wayward Snufkin that looks like you. Unwell, mentally, the poor dear. Much like his strange father who refuses to get out of the water. You don’t comment. You’re not a part of the conversation, just a prop.

The Joxter soon is taking your scarf in his paw. He’s crouching on the dock, and can’t reach any lower. “Come along, dear,” he says as he leads you along the dock like a dog on a leash until you hit the boards and have to clamber out. He waves pleasantly at the Hemulen, and then the three of you disappear further into town.

The Joxter’s not going anywhere in particular, and you’re a terrible guide. You weren’t a civilized Joxter even when you were a proper one. You don’t know streets or buildings. Regardless, soon you find yourselves in a quiet, desolate area, wood warped and stained. Abandoned, as though the inhabitants had fled something and simply never returned. Your dull eyes slide over dark windows, shadowed doorways. Then, you smell him. Faint, but it’s like lightning. Or terror, shocking down your spine. The Joxter’s eyes light up at your hitch in breath, and Bendy realizes you’ve both stopped. It comes back and demands what’s going on.

“I think he's noticed something.”

“You better be right ‘bout this, Jox, because if Happy ain’t here I’m eatin’ Mama,” Bendy grumbles. Perhaps you are wrong, and you can embrace death with some relief. You know you’re not, though. Even without the stink of ink (which you can smell the residue of) you know your own child’s scent. Something shifts behind a window, then stillness descends. Your absolute dismay is enough of an answer for the Joxter.

The Joxter knocks on the door as though private property has ever meant anything. Bendy takes a different approach, and flings itself bodily against the door repeatedly, until it swings open. The Hemulen meets your gaze, and you hunch down into yourself as he recognizes you. You feel as though you’ve betrayed him, interfered with his rescue of your son, though you never agreed to this and know it was no real rescue.

They talk, you’re forced to confirm this is the correct Hemulen, then Bendy slithers inside like the demon it is.

You follow, eyes on the floor and nothing more, so completely miss when something collides with your head. Down you go in a plume of dust, with barely a noise. You try to push yourself up, only for it to strike again, blurring the view of the Hemulen’s feet and trousers. You slump.

The unconsciousness lasts only a few moments, disorienting as it is when you do return to the world. You’re alone. Your nose itches from the dust, and you twitch your whiskers as though that will solve anything.

With one hand to your pounding, blood-wet head, you climb slowly and drunkenly to your feet. All the commotion is happening deeper inside the house. You’re tempted not to go, but even now, you worry about Happy. Nothing about him is your son anymore, yet you can’t stop caring.

The Hemulen and the Joxter are talking when you stumble over. All you hear is ringing. You can see Happy laughing, though, as he’s raped before an audience.

Bendy’s attention turns toward the Hemulen, and the Joxter quickly steps away. You don’t bother to move. The Hemulen’s hatred means nothing to you. His horror as he’s swept up in ink and spikes and screaming agony barely a foot away -- you don’t care. Happy is alive. You’re not sure if that’s good or bad, a mixture of relief and dismay warring with a concussion.

Happy looks at you, and there’s instant, tentative joy as his look turns into movement. Did he miss you? Was he scared without his papa? Dare you hope that he recognizes you? You step forward, holding out your arms to gather him up and protect him from all the horrible things in the world.

He brushes right past you.

Oh.

Of course.

_ Bendy _ .

Your arms fall limp to your sides as you stare at where Happy had been. You don’t need to see him to know he’s doing something obscene and pathetic with that monster. You’re an idiot, imagining he cared about anything but Bendy anymore, letting that wound open up again and again even after all this time. It still hurts. Or that’s your other, real injuries. All the pain kind of blurs together.

The Joxter eases up to you, and a paw gently touches your head wound, then your wet cheek.

“Happy endings move me, as well, dear,” he murmurs, nudging your cheek, disgusting tongue flicking out to lick at the tears. “It’s so wonderful, seeing them back together again, isn’t it?”

Since you’re pointedly not looking at them, you can’t say, but you suspect it’s terrible. You led them back to Happy. He could have been, if not  _ free  _ judging by the chains and walls, at least saved from Bendy. You couldn't bring yourself to die to save your own son. You’re a monster, too.


End file.
